


we belong to the ground now

by brosura



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Profanity, implied alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 23:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10650696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brosura/pseuds/brosura
Summary: Aranea’s in the crowd the day the Oracle ascends to her station.Three times Aranea sees Lunafreya before the fall of Insomnia.





	we belong to the ground now

**Author's Note:**

> title is derived from florence and the machine lyrics ("mother") as usual (formerly titled, "spear ladies" on tumblr)
> 
> idk man i just refuse to believe they didn't interact at all even though they both grew up in the Empire
> 
> very short, but i hope y'all enjoy it!

Aranea’s in the crowd the day the Oracle ascends to her station.

She’s not sure what the buzz is all about. The whole Oracle thing seems like a whole bunch of nonsense: voice of the Astrals who might as well not exist for _all the good_ they do, healer of a disease that most people will die of before they even get a fighting chance. But Biggs and Wedge, big old babies that they were, wanted to see. So she’s there, twenty two and jaded already, as the Oracle takes to the altar next to a mysterious woman whose eyes never seem to open.

Aranea knows that the kid’s sixteen, didn’t think much of it at first. This was the kind of world where you were _lucky_ if your accomplishments came later in life. _(Her first kill was at twelve, she was fifteen when she’d advanced to lead her little band of mercenaries.)_

But for some reason, she sees the kid - thin and frail and ephemeral all in white - and remembers being sixteen and starving. Remembers the times when work was scarce and she and her men grew gaunt and desperate, remembers looking in dirty mirrors to make sure she wouldn’t let the heavy weight of the lives resting on her shoulders show in her posture or the set of her brow.

This girl looks the same, as dainty and clean as she is. There’s something strong as steel running underneath the thin arms and narrow shoulders, the carefully braided blonde hair. Her hands shake as she does her first blessing - an old woman who hobbled up to the altar, she cries when the Oracle rests a gentle hand on her face - but the determined steadiness of her frame doesn’t waver, not in the slightest.

Aranea hopes that somehow, she’ll survive this wretched Empire.

* * *

The next time she sees the Oracle, it’s nearly two years later.

Aranea’s company - honest _company_ now, they’ve finally hit something stable as the Empire’s hired dogs - is assigned as guard to her caravan on the way to a diplomatic event on the other side of Tenebrae. Some hothead a year her senior in the military named Ravus had thrown a fit that he wasn’t assigned to the job, but apparently there was a conflict of interest or whatever.

Either way, they’re doing something supremely stupid, which is _travelling after dark._ Still, they’ve got decent lighting going and the benefits of numbers, so it isn’t so bad. That is, until the Oracle decides to save a couple of _assholes_ that had wandered too far from their camp once the sun had set and gotten cornered by some daemons.

She’s not doing so bad, all things considered. She’s fought off the smaller guys - goblins, probably - as the assholes made a safe exit, warded a good number away with the light from her spear or the bright shield of her magic. She’s very obviously not trained for this, though, because one of the bigger daemons blocks her thrust with its hand and pulls her off balance - a _rookie_ move - and Aranea has to leave her men to the sniping and drop down from her airship to intervene.

“Shit, kid!” Aranea growls, pulling her spear out of the daemon with a sickening pop. “If you’ve got a weapon, learn how to _use_ the damn thing.”

“Thank you,” the Oracle says, breathless but brow set with the same determination Aranea had seen the day she’d taken up her mother’s mantle.

“Also, if you’re going to go on a rescue mission, how about you tell your _damn escort_ first?”

“Of course,” she nods, unflinching even against the frustration in Aranea’s tone. She doesn’t apologize, and Aranea has to admit that’s admirably stubborn of her. “Thank you for protecting me even in my recklessness, ah, what-?”

“Aranea Highwind,” she finishes for the Oracle as her transport lowers to the ground to take them both back into the safety of the air. “Don’t try to get my ranking. The only people that don’t just call me ‘Aranea’ are the old bastards who pay my bills.”

“Aranea,” the girl murmurs, sounding pleased. “Thank you. I’m Lunafreya.”

“Knew that. You’re kind of a big deal, princess.”

“Ah,” Lunafreya blushes, and Aranea remembers that Oracle or no, she’s as much a kid that grew up too fast as anyone on her crew. “Of course.”

It’s not until they’re already in the transport that Lunafreya speaks again.

“How did you learn to fight?” she says, tentative, as she clutches her own weapon - more of a trident than a spear really, and bulkier than anything Aranea started with.

“Hard earned experience,” Aranea responds, honestly. “Been doing this since I was ten. There are things you pick up after a while.”

“Ah, I see,” Lunafreya trails off, looking thoughtful.

It’s not the kind of thoughtful that Aranea’s used to seeing after revealing the length of her military service. It’s neither the manipulative kind from her superiors, eager to make use of her power, or the pitiful kind, rare but common enough amongst the Empire’s well-to-dos, who can’t imagine a child so young fighting for pay.

It's not the kind of thoughtful that Aranea’s used to seeing, but it’s recognizable all the same.

“If you’re asking to get some advice for yourself,” Aranea says. “Try building up your arm strength first, and work on the speed of your thrusts and swings. With magic like yours, all you’ve gotta do is get your opponent far enough away that you can put up that shield. Not like you’re ever gonna be travelling alone anyway, being the Oracle and all.”

“Thank you,” Lunafreya nods with that determined set to her brow again. “Thank you, I’ll work on that.”

“You ought to,” Aranea teases. “Not sure how all this magic shit works, but I heard we’re all pretty screwed if you up and croak.”

In spite of everything, Lunafreya laughs.

* * *

She doesn’t see Lunafreya for almost another two years.

She’s twenty six and surrounded by a bunch of old men celebrating some great victory of the Empire, or whatever. Either way, there’s an open bar and anyone who’s anyone in Niflheim is there, even that greasy old Chancellor that gave Aranea the creeps. So she and Biggs and Wedge just drink as many fancy flutes of champagne as they can and hover around the sides of the party.

The music’s not great, the food is served in portions that might as well be for kids and eventually Aranea’s too tipsy to tolerate any of it, so she steps out of the party entirely, taking a seat on the steps of whatever fancy mansion the higher-ups had chosen for this year’s bash.

She’s looking up at the stars and wondering if she can get away with wrangling Biggs and Wedge into the airship and just ditching when she hears a familiar voice yell, “Aranea!”

She looks down to see Lunafreya, in another white gown - _Astrals, is that the only color she owns?_ \- tailed by a frowning Ravus, who she’d since learned was the Oracle’s older brother. Lunafreya bounds up to her with a youthful energy that Aranea didn’t think she had and up close she can see the light flush on her cheeks.

 _Even the Oracle gets drunk,_ she thought, amused, and took in the rest of her appearance. It hadn’t been noticeable from far away, but her white gown is dirtied and before she can wonder why, she realizes that there’s a crown of blue flowers on Lunafreya’s head. There’s even a crown of blue flowers on Ravus, and Aranea snorts at the awkward expression on Ravus now that he knows she can see.

“Here,” Lunafreya says, cheerful, and suddenly Aranea feels something light falling on her head. She reaches up to confirm that yes, she’s been given a flower crown of her own. “It’s a gift, for rescuing me two years ago!”

“Luna,” Ravus grumbles, tone just short of scolding. _What a killjoy,_ Aranea thinks. “It’s time to get you back.”

“Of course,” Lunafreya nods, still more cheerful than Aranea had ever seen. “Thank you, Aranea! Have a good night.”

Then she loops her hand into Ravus’ offered arm and they retreat back into the mansion. Aranea blinks after them.

She wears the crown for the rest of the night.

* * *

The world’s different after the Empire’s last opponent falls in a nightmare of fire and screams. Aranea’s not there when it happens, only hears about it through reports and hastily written newspaper articles. Ravus seems troubled, and Aranea can’t blame him.

His sister is presumed dead, then she’s alive, then she’s a traitor, then she’s _wanted dead._

Aranea remembers the sixteen year old, delicate and dressed in white, something strong as steel running underneath the thin arms and narrow shoulders, the carefully braided blonde hair.

Aranea hopes that somehow, she’ll survive this wretched world.

* * *

 

(BONUS)

“Thought I told you to learn how to _use_ this damn thing!” Aranea shouts over the roar of her airship, waving the Oracle’s trident indignantly.

Lunafreya’s collapsed on the deck, gasping for breath after being forcibly dragged from a near-stabbing courtesy of that greasy old Chancellor. Aranea’s sure that something worse would have happened if she hadn’t stuck around Altissia instead of retreating like everyone else was ordered to. She’s just glad she’d dropped that weird guy in time.

“I’ve… been _busy,”_ Lunafreya grates out between harsh breaths.

“I can _see_ that!” Aranea yells, one arm gesturing to the actual god screaming just a stone’s throw away from where they’re flying. “Biggs, step on it! We’re getting out of here before that briny bitch decides we’re on the menu!”

“Wait!” Lunafreya manages to shout, voice cracking with the effort. “My duty here isn’t done!”

As if on cue, Noctis, the other brat without any self-preservation skills, gets slapped by one of the goddess’ stray fins to land harshly on some collapsed pillar. Aranea curses, nixes her order and pulls her spear close. Before anything else can happen, though, she hears a distressed _‘Noct!’_ and sees the scrawny blond the prince kept around - Prompto, or something - zoom past on an Empire speeder.

“Well, _shit!_ Is anyone _not_ picking up after pretty boy’s slack?!”

**Author's Note:**

> aranea: take ur spear lunafreya i'm gonna need both of these hands if i've gotta CARrY The GoDDAMnED TEAM LIKE tHIS
> 
> anyway! i hope you enjoyed that self-indulgent fic! leave me a comment or give me a [lil yell on tumblr](http://brosura.tumblr.com/) to let me know how i'm doing!!


End file.
